


Burn

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Series: Short Prompt Fic! [4]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More teeny tiny prompt fic! This one was supposed to have more care, less murderous intent, but uh, it's Kylo/Hux and lightsaber burns are involved, so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

Do it, he grates out, what are you waiting for, do it, numb fingers flying to the buttons of his collar, ripping at the stiff, starched stand of it until it’s loosed from his neck. 

You’d let me, Ren says, dark eyes going liquid and wide, all pupil, like he’s taken a hit of dreamdust. Maybe he has. Truly, you’d let me? I expected you to fight.

To fight. Absurd, Hux thinks, tugging on his cuffs so hard he almost pops the seam; as it is, a button clinks down to the ground, rolling over, settling somewhere out of his sight. How could he have ever thought himself strong enough to fight this, he wonders bitterly, and Ren’s pale cheeks are flushing a sudden pink, the raised, ropy scar tissue even more pronounced. It’s not Ren anymore, he remembers; it’s whatever else Ren is calling himself now, his ridiculous denial to be addressed by his childhood name; his father’s name, a Jedi name, a name he doesn’t deserve, pretentious tosh so like him Hux almost wants to laugh. The old man’s dead, he wouldn’t begrudge you the use, he wants to say; not that it matters to Ren what he thinks, not that it, in all likelihood, ever has.

Come on, do it, he says again, finally pulling his shirt open; his hands shake, an expected physical response he knows he can’t control, but oh, he’d like to. His shoulder burns; it might have been more than a graze, he notes, can’t help jumping to should probably put some bacta -- before remembering there won’t be time for bacta after all, not with Ren steps away, thumbing at the hilt of his saber. At least they can’t call it ignominious, he decides, though it’s a poor comfort.

He is almost disappointed when the blade in Ren’s hands finally hums to life, the red, steady glow of it too calm, too -- premeditated, as if this is exactly what Ren came here to do. As if he is still that much Ren’s priority.

Close your eyes, Ren says, and Hux can’t help it. He starts laughing as Ren moves forward, as the red fills his vision, humming electric, as the heat of it singes through the thin cloth of his shirt, as it starts to hurt, an immense, monstrous red, red, red exploding through his chest, liquid fire running from vein to vein as it burns out his blood. 

The lightsaber hums off before he passes out; finish it, Ren, you great kriffing coward, he wants to say, but his lips won’t shape the words. 

He wakes to the hum of engines, and Ren’s overly large hand spreading blessed, glorious cold over the raging fire in his flesh. He smells the bacta, sharp and metallic, and the stink of char underneath, coolant and oil from the narrow berth he’s been shoved into, looking suspiciously more like a cargo compartment than living quarters. He submits to Ren’s practiced ministrations, the drip and slosh of bacta, the the bandage wrapping over his shoulder and under his arm, impossible to dislodge.

I expected you to fight, Ren says, securing the edge of the bandage smartly into itself. To fight. Absurd, Hux thinks, turning his face away from Ren, into the cool metal siding.


End file.
